


flowers of evil

by venomedveins



Series: tumblr prompts & drabbles [7]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: height difference-themed 1 for nagron pretty please :)





	flowers of evil

“I’m in a bookshop and I really need that book can you get it for me??? Wait you’ve read that book? let’s have an in-depth conversation about it.”

“Excuse me?” A finger gently taps the back of Agron’s arm. “I hate to bother you, but could you hand me that?”

Agron turns slowly, lowering his copy of The Aeneid. He’s half expecting to see some middle-aged guy with a bald spot and a polo pointing at the neon pink just to Agron’s shoulder titled “Sex Poems”. Instead, Agron is surprised and delighted to let his eyes rove over the other man - long hair tied up in a bun, tight jeans with a faded t-shirt depicting the cover of an old version of Ovid’s Fasti on the front, and a pair of thick combat boots - one scuffed on the toe with violent red paint.

“What?” Agron snaps his eyes back up, watching fascinated as the man flushes, arm still raised towards the bookshelves.

“Fleurs du mal. Just that black covered one there.” From where the man is standing, Agron can tell he’s not tall enough to reach the shelf, even on his toes.

“Oh! Here.” Easily, Agron lifts his arm and pulls the hard cover from its place. He hands it over, making a point to drag his fingers along the other man’s, grinning when he doesn’t pull away.

They fall back into silence, Agron trying to read the thick Latin of Virgil’s best and the other man flipping through the pages. After a few moments, Agron cannot stand it, lifting his eyes from his page.

“Feeling a little morosely erotic?”

The man’s eyes flicker up to him, a shy grin spreading across his face. “You read poetry?”

“Only ones that I find interesting.” Agron holds out his hand. “I’m Agron.”

“Nasir.” The man takes it, shaking slowly. He still has that bemused grin on his face. “Forgive me for saying, but you don’t seem like the type to-”

“To read poetry?” Agron asks, leaning casually against the stacks. “How can one read Baudelaire and not fall in love with him a little?”

“True. Though some would say he’s indecent.” Nasir slides his fingers over the simple cover, smooth nail tracing the outline of the lily on the front. “A savage to the language.”

“Perhaps he just saw what others could not,” Agron shrugs a shoulder. “He saw the word in a grotesque and intoxicating way. The pleasure and the agony of life.”

“He tilted one way more than the other.” Nasir has leaned against the bookshelf too, staring up at Agron with calculating eyes. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say there is a fine line between life and death just as there is between pain and pleasure.” Agron grins slowly. “If you cannot find the pleasure in pain, then you will always suffer.”

“Perhaps I am not meant to see it.” Nasir shrugs one shoulder, “How to move from one to another.”

“Or maybe no one has shown you the way.” Agron keeps his gaze on Nasir’s face. “It is not a path one should go alone. Even Dante had a guide. What you need is for someone to take you there, to show you. You need to trust them that once you delve into that darkness, that pain, that they will guide you into the pleasure. Then, once that happens, all other things will fall into place.”

“I-” Nasir falters for a moment, mouth open and gaping. Agron can smell the coffee on him, the double mint gum.

Agron feels bold, leaning down to murmur the words against Nasir’s ear. There is no one around, no one to watch his toying at seduction.

“Night thickens around us like a wall;  
in the deepening darkness our irises meet.  
I drink your breath, ah! poisonous yet sweet!”

Agron presses a scrap piece of paper into Nasir’s hand, his phone number scrawled across it. “Give me a call if you want to see what Baudelaire was talking about.”


End file.
